


take your heart

by futuresoon



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Guro, M/M, Parasites, sweeter than it sounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:35:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26179609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futuresoon/pseuds/futuresoon
Summary: Akechi glances briefly at his sword, then casts it aside. Grabs Akira’s discarded dagger instead. Crouches in front of Akira.“Try to bite down on something,” he says. “I apologize in advance.”(An opportunistic Shadow implants something in Akira's chest. Akechi gets it out, but they get...distracted.)
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 21
Kudos: 245





	take your heart

Akira’s gotten pretty used to stress. Part-time jobs, grades, the manifold problems of his friends; Palace deadlines, Mementos requests, the whole… _everything_ with Akechi. He knows how to handle it. It’s fine.

It’s just easier to handle it, is all, when he has reminders of what he’s doing it for. Grateful expressions on his friends’ faces. The pleasant inanity of the group chat. Morgana bopping his nose at night and telling him to get to sleep already.

And he doesn’t have any of those, now.

Well. Akechi’s here again. But that doesn’t really help the stress situation. Worsens it, actually, adds enough to the pile that Akira feels overloaded with the weight of it all.

But it’s _fine._ They’ll get to the auditorium, and rescue Kas-- _Sumire,_ and they’ll…he’s not sure what they’ll do with Maruki, exactly. 

They can figure it out when they get there, he tells himself, as Yatagarasu blazes a Bugs out of existence.

 _“Loki!”_ Akechi roars, and the stripey nightmare that Akira still can’t quite believe is on his side now cleaves the second Bugs almost in half. 

Undeterred by its near-death, the Bugs screeches, rushes towards Akira, smacks him in the head with a stuffed paw that feels like a steel girder. Akira stumbles, horrible tendrils slithering into his brain--why is he fighting the Shadows, they just want to be left alone, he should be fighting--he should--

Through the fog, he hears someone say, “Oh, fuck off,” and the Bugs explodes with a wail as a bullet rips through it.

Oh-- _there--_

Akira lunges.

But his dagger doesn’t connect; a metal boot slams into his chest, sends him staggering. The force of it instantly clears his head. 

Akechi glares at him from behind the metal mask. “Get back up,” he snaps. “There’s still a--”

Akira looks up the moment the Hastur bears down on him.

One black tentacle wraps around the arm holding the dagger; he ties to wrest away, but to no avail, and before he knows it his other arm is restrained, another tentacle curling around him. This is only the second time he’s even _seen_ a Hastur, he has no idea what they’re like, what is it _doing--_

A third tentacle rears up. Darts forward. Spears him in the chest.

A hoarse cry rips from his throat--but no, as he struggles he realizes it didn’t go that deep, must not have hit anything important.

The tentacle pulses. A tiny bulge forms near the end of it, quickly travels down, goes _inside--_

As a much sharper pain pierces his chest, his second cry is drowned out by the Hastur’s voiceless roar as a sword splits it in half.

It disappears into black particles, leaving the two of them alone in the white hallway. 

Akechi glances over at him. “Are you all right?” he asks. “What was it doing?”

Akira tentatively touches his chest. There’s a hole maybe an inch wide, straight through his shirt, freshly bleeding. He winces; the sharp pain is still there.

“I don’t know,” he says, and then he jolts.

Something in the hole is _moving._

Burrowing deeper, squirming inside him--he staggers, does the first thing he can think of: shouts, _“Cybele!”_ and exhales as the green rush of diarahan flows through him. The hole closes up, his shirt mends itself.

But the movement hasn’t stopped.

Desperately, he pulls an amrita shower from Cybele; nothing, nothing, something is _inside him_ and it’s _moving--_

“What’s wrong?” Akechi asks, his voice tense.

The pain ratchets up as Akira gasps, “It put something inside me, I don’t--” And his voice cuts off into a scream as the something _bites._

Akechi’s on him in an instant, tears his shirt open with the sharp grip of his gauntlets. “Some kind of parasite?” he says sharply. “Where is it?”

Akira touches a hand to where the pain is at its worst. He realizes that it’s right over his heart.

Akechi catches on quickly. “Keep Cybele ready,” he says. “And take your shirt off.”

Akira numbly pulls off his jacket and shirt, and collapses against the nearest wall, breathing heavy as the parasite digs through his flesh. Distantly, he thinks that under normal circumstances Akechi telling him to take his shirt off would cause a very different reaction, but this isn’t the time to think about that.

Akechi glances briefly at his sword, then casts it aside. Grabs Akira’s discarded dagger instead. Crouches in front of Akira.

“Try to bite down on something,” he says. “I apologize in advance.”

Akira grabs the sleeve of his jacket, twists it into a rope, clenches it between his teeth. Squeezes his eyes shut. 

Can’t help screaming into the gag as the first cut slices across his chest. 

Akechi’s other hand braces against his shoulder. “This isn’t really my forte,” he says, his voice a little ragged. “But I’ve got a balm of life on me. Whatever happens, you’ll be fine.”

 _That really isn’t all that comforting actually,_ Akira thinks, somewhat hysterically.

Another cut, this one going down, carving a T-shape into his flesh.

Near-unbearable waves of agony are accompanied by a wet, slippery sound as the flesh on his chest is peeled to the side.

The parasite squirms inside him.

Akechi exhales. “I can’t see it,” he says. “It must be behind your ribcage already. I’ll have to break the bones to get through.”

Akira’s never had surgery in his life and here he is, partly flayed open, his crush about to break open his ribcage and--fuck, what _is_ Akechi going to do--

It’s of no consolation that Akechi doesn’t sound very confident in what he’s doing. “I’m sorry,” Akechi says tightly. Akira hears the sound of something hard brushing at a solid surface, and a sound like a small gale of wind bursting out of nowhere, the beginning of a harsh laugh that abruptly cuts off--

And he doesn’t have any sensation in his bones, but he can still hear the horrible _snap_ of his ribs and sternum crushing in Akechi’s grip.

“Done,” Akechi says heavily, sounding like he just ran a marathon.

Looking would be a horrible idea. He would get no benefit from looking. But Akira’s eyes open almost involuntarily, glance down at his chest.

The flesh that used to cover it is folded to each side, leaving maybe a six-inch triangular hole centered over the left side of his chest. His chest cavity is fully exposed, half the bones just _gone,_ ripped apart and discarded in a bloody pile next to him. He can see his lungs contracting, expanding, increasingly rapidly, big pink fleshy masses pulsing with each breath.

Nestled between them, partly covered by them, is his heart.

Akira hears it beat faster in his ears and watches it beat faster inside him, throbbing in the increasing panic. Every nerve in his mind screams that he shouldn’t be seeing this, he needs to heal, this is _wrong--_

Akechi rips off one of his gauntlets, casts it aside on the ground not far from Akira’s discarded ribs. He says, “Where do you feel it?”

Akira barely manages to raise a hand to gesture to the pulsing mass of his heart.

Akechi takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says, and reaches in.

Reaches _in._ Gently parts Akira’s lungs; slides his fingers into Akira’s flesh, searching.

Akira thinks he might be hyperventilating. His lungs flutter against Akechi’s hand, screaming their protest at the unnatural intrusion. His teeth clench into the gag almost hard enough to tear the leather.

He can feel the parasite scuttle around the back of his heart.

Akechi’s fingers brush against Akira’s heart. His whole body shudders. His heart beats so hard Akechi’s fingers are momentarily pushed aside, but Akechi continues, slips his fingers around the frantically throbbing muscle.

Akira feels it--the parasite latching onto his heart when Akechi touches it.

Akechi’s face contorts. _“There,”_ he mutters, and Akira feels the movement inside of him, the fingers clenching down and _pulling_ and the sting of the parasite being ripped away.

He hasn’t screamed in a while, and he’s not sure why.

Akechi withdraws his hand. Squished between his thumb and forefinger is a little black thing about the size of a fly, wriggling its death throes.

He flicks it to the side. It lands on the white ground and twitches for just a moment before going still.

Akechi exhales. “Okay,” he says. “You’re fine.”

His fingers are coated in deep red gore from Akira’s body. Akira can’t stop looking at them. _Those were inside me,_ he thinks distantly. 

Akira doesn’t associate Akechi with any kind of gentleness. But his fingers explored Akira’s chest cavity almost tenderly, moving around the organs slow enough not to cause any damage, bare skin on bloody meat.

He realizes Akechi’s looking at him. He wrests his eyes from Akechi’s fingers to look back.

Akechi’s face is absolutely unreadable.

A second passes, two, three; and Akira still hasn’t summoned Cybele.

If he did--this view would be gone. Grotesque, visceral, unnatural to be exposed to daylight; but…hypnotizing. The deepest parts of him on display. Able to be seen, watched, observed.

Touched.

Four seconds. Five.

Neither of them say anything. The silence stretches on and on, the two of them frozen in a bloody tableau, the only movements the pulsing of Akira’s lungs and heart.

It feels like an eternity before Akechi reaches out.

The pain changed, Akira realizes. Not gone, just unimportant. Quietly moved to the back of his mind in favor of a strange, desperate desire.

Akechi’s fingertips brush against Akira’s heart once more.

Akira’s breath catches in his throat. Gentleness, again; far greater caution than he would’ve thought Akechi capable of. His heart beats faster, but not with fear.

Akechi caresses the throbbing muscle, his fingers stroking Akira’s insides so tenderly. Akira shudders at the touch. 

Akechi’s fingers skim around to the back, his palm brushes against the bottom. He cradles Akira’s heart like he’s holding something unimaginably precious. 

If Akira’s body is still protesting, he doesn’t feel it. All he feels is the warmth and softness of Akechi’s hand inside him, a thumb gently brushing circles against the surface of his heart.

His eyes meet Akechi’s once more.

Akechi looks…reverent, almost. Vulnerable. As vulnerable as Akira is now.

Something wordless passes between them.

Akechi removes the hand that was bracing against Akira’s shoulder, and picks up the dagger again.

The cut slices lower, down almost to Akira’s waist, the knife parting his flesh so softly Akira doesn’t feel it. Akechi discards the dagger once more, pushes the widening flap of flesh out of their way.

A moment of hesitation--and he lets go of Akira’s heart. Akira aches at the sudden absence.

Akechi’s hands rest on Akira’s hips, instead. Pull him up so he’s straddling Akechi’s lap.

Akira removes the long-unnecessary gag, lets it fall to the side. Drapes his arms around Akechi’s shoulders. Akechi undoes the clasps of his mask, drops it out of the way, his face fully visible now. Cautiously, he takes off Akira’s mask too. Their heads are almost touching.

One of Akechi’s hands moves to Akira’s back, rests against his spine. The other reaches for Akira’s center.

Akira’s not sure which organ is which. Two kidneys and a liver, somewhere; he finds it hard to remember the details. But he sees Akechi’s fingers brush against something soft and wet and warm.

He wonders, briefly, what it would be like if Akechi took one of them out, held it in his hand entirely. But that would be too much, surely.

Still. He thinks about it.

Akechi’s fingers slip between two of them, sliding into Akira’s core. He gently cups the top of something, pressing on it feather-soft.

His other hand strokes Akira’s spine. Softly, slowly, up and down. A caress as achingly tender as the rest. Akira feels a soft sound fall from his lips. Not quite a moan, not quite a sigh. Something for just the two of them in this fragile bubble of unreality.

Akira’s mind drifts. He rests his forehead against Akechi’s, closes his eyes as he surrenders himself to the gentle touch of Akechi’s hands. It’s like he’s both in his body and not, feeling the sensations but also far away. He feels Akechi’s fingers brush past his stomach and into the coil of his intestines, curl around one of the fleshy ropes with a profound affection. More soft sounds fall from his mouth. 

Akechi rubs a soothing pattern against his back. Akira distantly imagines cutting open the flesh there and Akechi stroking the bare vertebrae.

He feels Akechi’s hand reach deeper, slipping in almost to the wrist. He feels slightly dizzy at the knowledge of how much of Akechi is inside him, how deeply connected they are, Akechi feeling parts of him that no one else could ever touch. Akechi knowing him more fully than anyone ever will.

Everything feels a little dizzy, actually. A little distant. The feeling of being far from his body increases, his mind drifting farther and farther away.

On the edge of his hearing, he barely hears Akechi saying, in a soft, hesitant voice, “Akira?”

A distant, muffled curse--that absence again--the slippery sensation of the flaps of his chest put back in place--a new sensation, cold and warm at once, pressed against him--

And the world rushes back.

Akira slowly opens his eyes.

He sees Akechi’s face, pale, scared. 

_Oh,_ he thinks, his thoughts less distant. _The bubble burst._

“We should--get back,” Akechi says hoarsely. “Maruki still has Yoshizawa. We can’t stay here.”

“…yeah,” Akira says. He’s still on Akechi’s lap. Still shirtless. He glances down at his chest, and sees it back to normal, skin and flesh in place, the deepest parts of him back to being hidden.

He doesn’t want to move. But he has to. He manages to shift off Akechi’s lap, stand up, retrieve his shirt and coat and put them back on.

Finally, he puts back his mask. Akechi’s is already on. It feels strange, to be hiding their faces from each other now, after that.

So much feels strange. So much feels like it must be different now.

But Sumire still needs them.

Akira takes a deep breath. “Thanks,” he says, and he’s not sure he’s referring to the parasite.

“…it was no trouble,” Akechi replies, looking away.

Akira takes the lead once more, which almost feels unnatural now, after that peaceful surrender. He can’t let himself think about it. 

A moment of Metaverse strangeness, that’s all it was. Palaces have odd effects on the mind and body. That’s all.

But the mountain of stress that was weighing heavily on him, threatening to overwhelm him--

It feels lessened, now.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [Tumblr](http://www.futuresoon.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/futuresoonest).
> 
> Check out this amazing art by [susurawr](https://twitter.com/susurawr/status/1300379864831205377)!


End file.
